Snowbound

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Emma

One… eight… four… seven.

Wrong.

The red error code blinks at me, smug as hell. I blow into my cupped hands, but the warmth disappears before it even touches my fingers. My gloves are buried somewhere in my bag. Brilliant move, Em. Brilliant.

Wasn’t supposed to be this cold though… was it? No. Of course not. If I’d known, I would have packed all my sweaters and winter gear instead of my old, threadbare standbys. Maybe I would’ve booked a completely different kind of retreat, like one with cocktails and cabanas.

Why did you think an isolated cabin in the woods was a good idea, Emma? I could be finishing my book on a tropical island, toes buried in sun-warmed sand, sipping mojitos between chapters. They have Wi-Fi there, too, last I checked.

But no, I wanted ambience. I wanted “aesthetic.” A lone cabin with a postcard mountain backdrop, the snow so soft it looked painted on, the horizon stretching away in cinematic beauty.

In my fantasy, I was curled up under a blanket by a roaring fire, tea at my elbow, the words pouring effortlessly from me, the kind of writing that would gut you in the best way. Raw, unflinching, unforgettable. Reality though?

Hollow-eyed. Running on wine and too much coffee, nursing heartbreak and anger in alternating waves. Nerves fried down to a frayed wire. Deadline beating down my door and a rising sense of desperation that’s threatening my sleep. And now—locked out.

I try again, willing the keypad to just cooperate.

One… eight… five… seven.

Wrong again.

For some reason, I cling to it like it’s a sign. 1847—the year Wuthering Heights, my father’s favorite book, was published. My almost namesake making literary history. Surely that means something.

It doesn’t. The box blinks its mechanical no at me.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” I mutter, digging out my phone. My hair whips across my face, caught in a gust sharp enough to slice through my coat. I scroll to the email, still open on my phone, my eyes squinting against the wind.

One… eight… five… six.

I just stare at it for a second, the realization dripping slow and humiliating. Maybe I do need reading glasses. Or maybe this is what happens when you’ve been hunched over a laptop for weeks on end. Or maybe I’m just plain exhausted. Sleep—what a concept.

I punch in the correct code. This time, there’s a green flash and a satisfying click, followed by blessed entry. The wind practically shoves me over the threshold, and I stumble inside, my heart giving a small, startled lurch.

It’s… beautiful.

Not just “nice” beautiful but breathtaking, in that quiet, unexpected way.

Wide-plank wooden floors, honey-golden walls, and a fireplace that looks big enough to swallow me whole.

It smells like Christmas in here, and I quickly realize why—a small pine is nestled in the corner in a tree stand, decorated with only a few strings of lights and a red ribbon, reminding me that Christmas is only a week away.

A rustic basket of cinnamon-scented pine cones sits on the mantle, large boughs of greenery the only decorations.

I take a deep breath in. It’s lovely.

“Oh my gosh.” I exhale, letting my backpack slide from my shoulder. I wince at the dull thunk of my laptop hitting the floor. Still, I can’t stop looking around. My chest feels strange—like something heavy has shifted, just slightly.

I haven’t felt happy in months.

Not since I found those pink lace panties in the laundry that were definitely not mine.

Not since I drained a bottle of vodka waiting for my husband to come home, and then threw it at his head when he finally did.

Not since he stood there, calm and collected, and said he hadn’t loved me in years. That he’d been having an affair for the entirety of our marriage.

I press my lips together, hard, to keep the tears from spilling over. My throat burns. I force myself to look at the cabin instead.

This is for new Emma, I tell myself, the Emma who is going to figure herself out again.

Except… the cabin screams couples retreat.

The enormous king bed piled high with pillows.

The romantic throw blankets. The large stone fireplace with a rug in front that looks suspiciously perfect for, well, lying on…

among other things. And to top it all off, tree-shaped chocolates wrapped in red and green foil on the pillows.

Fabulous.

Still, credit where it’s due—someone hauled themselves all the way out here just to leave chocolates. I drop onto the bed, toe off my boots, and eat both in one bite, barely chewing. I can’t even remember the last real meal I had.

The chocolate melts, silky and sweet. I’ve always been a chocolate girl.

Chocolate doesn’t lie. Chocolate doesn’t fuck a stranger in your own bed and leave someone’s slutty panties for you to find. Chocolate is loyal.

I stare at the empty wrappers and sigh. Should’ve saved one.

I grab my phone and pull up the reservation still open on the app. And that’s when I see it—two and a half stars across the top. Oh my god. I can almost hear Jake scolding me.

Really, Emma? Maybe read the damn reviews next time?

“Shut up,” I whisper to no one and tap the description on the page anyway, even though my phone seems frozen and doesn’t want to work. It takes forever to load.

“Don’t open the web page,” I whisper to myself. “Don’t do it.”

Ignorance is bliss?

But no, I open the damn page that I should’ve read before I came here. Instead, I packed a bunch of shit in a bleary-eyed coma and got the hell out of dodge.

Sigh. And here we are.

I cringe, reading the first few lines.

A true retreat! Craving solitude and the time to unplug from the constant demands of the digital age? We’ve got you covered.

There’s little to no cell reception for most of our guests.

Please bring your own food—this is the land of no delivery services, no nearby grocery stores.

Wintertime visitors beware: A snowstorm often means no power, and the heat is also electric.

Enjoy your stay!

My stomach sinks like a stone. Oh god. I really was drunk and bleary-eyed when I booked this.

A text pops up that wasn’t there before, and for all I know, came hours ago.

Jake

Where are you?? Someone said you packed up and left. You can’t do that

It takes every effort I have not to tell him he can’t put his dick in a woman after taking vows to me, and he’s totally lost any right to knowledge of my whereabouts. But I recently read something that said no answer IS an answer, and that makes good sense.

So I give my phone the middle finger and toss it on the counter, because I’m mature like that, and congratulate myself on not responding and taking the higher ground.

Then I stomp my feet and scream. “Arrrrgh! You stupid, useless, piece of shit!”

I’m breathing heavily but feel a bit better.

I look around.

I’m in the middle of nowhere in a cabin, with no food, no car—because I decided it would “keep me focused” and I wouldn’t have a way to distract myself—and now spotty cell service.

Brilliant.

It’s fine, it’s fine.

I was a scout once. I can make a fire, thanks to—no, I won’t go there now. I won’t think of him.

But I always think of Owen when I’m stressed. I can’t help it.

Deep breath. Time to get practical.

I’ve practically been living on nothing for weeks, so what’s one more week? Isn’t fasting… good for you or something?

I stare at my useless cell phone. How am I going to decompress if I can’t mindlessly scroll all day? I bite my lip and look out the window.

Chop wood?

The problem is, this means… I’m kinda screwed.

I force a slow breath.

“All right, Emma. First mission—food.”

I cross to the fridge, bracing for the disappointment of my college days.

Instead, I blink in surprise because… it’s full.

Deli meat. Strawberries. Bottled water. Good cheeses, wrapped in fancy deli papers.

Several bottles of wine. Crusty bread. Peanut butter from a farmer’s market.

Vegetables. A package of thin-sliced chicken cutlets.

There are even a few premade meals, ready to heat, fresh pasta, and more of the foil-wrapped chocolate.

And on the top shelf, a folded piece of paper.

Welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay.

I stare a little too long though.

The handwriting… it tugs at something in my brain. Familiar.

But hunger wins. I grab the pasta container, my mouth already watering. Inside are plump meatballs, rich sauce, and Parmesan curled in delicate shavings.

Oh, thank god.

I find a small but neat stack of mismatched plates in the cabinet, along with a drawer of silverware. The microwave hums to life. While it heats, filling the small interior with the savory smells of garlic and herbs, I wander the place, taking it all in.

This is definitely the kind of cabin built for two.

Rough-hewn beams stretch across the ceiling.

The armchair by the fire is worn just right, the kind that molds to you the moment you sit.

Even the throw rug seems intentionally placed, like every inch of this space is a photograph waiting to happen.

And here I am. Alone.

The pasta is gone before I even realize I’ve been shoveling it into my mouth like a starved woman fresh out of prison. In my defense, though, the sauce was rich and velvety, the kind of flavor that makes you close your eyes and hum like a lunatic. Chef’s kiss.

I wash the plate, set it in the tiny drying rack, and make a plan. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up early, start the fire, brew coffee so strong it could slap me awake, open that laptop, and actually write something.

Not just something, something good. Something amazing. Something that could go toe-to-toe with that pasta sauce and win.

And most importantly, something that will prove to the world, or maybe to myself, that I am not just the woman whose ex cheated on her with someone who wears questionable pink panties.

Maybe I’m not… a failure.